


Nightmare

by Lif61 (UltimateFandomTrash)



Series: Whumptober 2019 [27]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (Accidental), (sort of), Character Death, Dead People, Dean Winchester Bears the Mark of Cain, Dean Winchester Whump, Gore, Horror, M/M, Mark of Cain (Supernatural), Nightmare, POV Dean Winchester, Season/Series 09, Self-Harm, Sexual Content, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 13:49:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21198683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UltimateFandomTrash/pseuds/Lif61
Summary: Dean is with Castiel, enjoying his time with him, or so he thinks...





	Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> Written for day 27 of Whumptober 2019. The prompt for today was ransom, but I had great difficulties with that prompt and any story I wrote at for it just didn't work, so I had to pick an alternative prompt.  
Alternative prompt: nightmare

Dean’s forearm was burning like a fever, and he hissed as Castiel caressed it, fingers firm, touch sizzling. Right now his angel was on him, hand unsure as it gripped his cock, but his hips seemed to know what they were doing as they ground against him. Dean had his head tilted back, throat revealed to him, mouth open in a languid moan.

“Cas, I need you,” he breathed, voice rough and guttural.

His angel just grunted in recognition, tongue lapping at his anti-possession tattoo. They were partially undressed, and had found a bed… somewhere. Dean didn’t know where. It didn’t matter.

He had a hand to Cas’ throat, and fuck, he felt blood thrum through him, down to his pelvis, as his angel’s pulse quickened beneath his hand. Castiel growled at him, pushing against him, and Dean pushed back, wrapping a leg around him, jutting up into the grip around him.

Dean began to get the upper hand with him, fighting, rolling, and Castiel grabbed onto his hip, his torso, trying to keep Dean down.

“Dean, don’t.”

“Fuck, Cas, I want you.” Dean got on top, breathing heavy, pinning Cas beneath him. “Do you want me?” he asked.

Castiel kissed his right arm, and Dean’s eyes rolled back in his head. God, he was burning inside. And he could smell blood.

There were bodies now littered around them, about the bed, and the both of them were covered in their blood. It turned Dean on more, and he tried to kiss Cas. The angel pulled back.

“Not like this,” Castiel told him.

“What?” Dean asked.

“Not while the Mark has you.”

He twisted Dean’s forearm to him, the Mark of Cain burning in his vision, and it seared a fiery red. The blood poured down around him. Castiel disappeared beneath him.

Now it was just Dean on the bed, in the abandoned house filled with the dead bodies. They reeked, and his nostrils flared. God, his body loved the smell. He was tucked into his pants now, but his shirt was still unbuttoned, blood still streaked across his torso, dotted his face. An angel blade was in his hand, and Cas’ tie was in his left.

“Cas?” he called out, a deep emptiness filling him.

“Castiel?”

No answer.

Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god.

He began to search the bodies, watching them slowly decompose, the smell of rot taking over his nose. Flies lay eggs in their organs, and maggots filled in empty spaces, more filth being birthed underneath the wounds in their bodies. Rigor mortis left, heads rolled, limbs flopped, fluids squelched, bloating took over, and dark blood began to clot at the bottom of the corpses while the faces became pale, the eyes sightless where some still had eyes. Others had been gouged out, and sometimes Dean found them rolling off his shoulders, intestines slopping off of him, a heart just under his foot as he stepped on it, splattering blood. The faces were recognizable, people he’d killed before, some monsters, some human, usually those he hadn’t even thought twice about.

And Castiel’s tie was no longer in his hand, it was about his wrist, tight and breaking off the connection to his nerves.

Blood pumped through him fiercely, the gore in the room making him high.

But his stomach ached with emptiness, and a pit yawned in his chest.

Cas, Cas, Cas…

Where was he? Where was he? Where was he?

Dean couldn’t move through all the bodies, fell to his knees, was sure the room had grown larger, darker, or maybe it was closing in on him.

And there, in between his legs, even as he remained as aroused as he had been before with Castiel pleasing him, there he was, beautiful blue eyes glassy, sightless, blood trickling out of his mouth, chest filled with stab wounds, the hint of black wings spread out below him, covered by more bodies.

Dean kissed Castiel’s stone-cold lips, Mark of Cain searing on his arm, knife plunging into his chest once more against his will. His body was rigid against his, dead.

Until he kissed back.

Dean sat up, shocked, crying.

And Castiel, still dead, was now looking at him. He grabbed the blade from Dean, and stabbed the Mark in his arm.

Unlike most nightmares Dean didn’t awake from this one with a start, he came in and out of reality, and it took minutes before he realized he wasn’t covered in blood, but his own sweat, and the pain he felt in his arm was something he was doing to himself. He was scratching the skin off of his forearm, nails digging in, drawing blood.

And still the Mark of Cain was there, the skin over it healing, again and again.

Dean was curled up on his side in the fetal position, back, neck, and shoulders aching, his legs shuddering, thighs sore, and his body betrayed him, balls hurting as if he’d been greatly aroused earlier and had gone unfulfilled. Swallowing roughly, he tasted metal in his mouth, like blood, and god, it was slimy at the back of his throat, almost like he’d been swallowing it, but his lips were dry.

He was surprised he hadn’t been screaming.

Dean forced himself to get up out of bed, though he was terrified of himself, terrified that the space around him wouldn’t be empty and that it’d be littered with…

He shuddered, mind drawing back to his half-fading dream, confused.

He switched his lamp on, eyes watering, blinking back against the light. He groaned, stretching himself out. As he stood he rubbed at sore muscles.

Dean grunted, and went over to his sink, planning on washing off his face, and his arm. The least he could do was make sure he wasn’t so bloody. The Mark wanted blood, and maybe even his own was bad.

After washing up a bit, jaw clenched, his mind not letting go of the image of Castiel’s dead body beneath him, in between his legs, blade in his chest, he faced himself in the mirror.

The eyes that stared at him were black, and the mouth in the mirror opened, letting out a soundless scream.

Dean woke up screaming, and his bedroom door banged open in mere seconds. He drew his gun out from under his pillow, alert, sitting up, ready to shoot. And Sam disarmed him, tackling him down to the mattress.

As Dean held in sobs, yelled at Sam, fought against him, he knew for sure, this was reality.

And god, there was still no Cas because he was out there with the god damn angels. And maybe he feared the Mark.

No Castiel.

He hated it.


End file.
